Maybe I have been raised to be sad
Un-developed film
Under-developed limbs
A collection of almosts
Making up for a whole of nothing

Quick, we'll be late for class,
Have you payed though, dad?

Maybe I have been raised to find
That I was made to be
That I meant to grow up
And stay incomplete

Maybe I have been raised hole'd
Meant to have every substance
Seep through my porous surface
Drip onto the cold linoleum tiles
That make up the floor
Of the room that always contains me

Maybe I was always meant to have four walls around me
Containing me
Maybe one day the door will solidify
Can it be covered with soft pads?
Made to contain the mad?

My thoughts that make up my brain are much too hard to uncoil and they have to stay ravelled and tight; lest you turn your eyes onto my

Under-developed limbs and ask me my age
"How old are you?"
"How old, are, y o u?"

God is not done with you
Crawl back into the womb that made you
Build God
Make her give you what you lack
Ask her to please, seal the pores so that you can keep in the light

"Can you seal up my pores so I can keep in the light?"